


Plunge

by miss_nettles_wife



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: (of a minor oc), Character Death, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, Father/Son, Gen, Humiliation, Serial Killers, Starvation, beatings, tbh charlie just gets really fucked up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 11:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4704767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_nettles_wife/pseuds/miss_nettles_wife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a serial killer in Ballarat targeting young, pretty men with dark hair, is Charlie next on the killers list? Will Blake and co. be able to save him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Going back to my roots a bit here. Remember Gratuitous Violence? Me too. Me too. So here's a fic where Charlie gets seriously fucked up for no good god damn reason.   
> Enjoy :-)))))))

“Another one.” Blake said, as Charlie nodded his head.   
“Third this month.” He agreed, as they stared at the body.   
“Same injuries?”   
“Well I'm not a doctor but it certainly looks like.” Charlie said, holding the tape up so Blake could pass though. Lawson sighed and nodded.   
“Samuel Peak.” He said, introducing the dead man. “Rap sheet as long as I am tall, well known dealer.”   
“He's only a boy.”   
“It's the baby face, he's actually thirty five.” Lawson sighed. “ Cause of death?” Blake looked up from where he's knelt.  
“Well it's just a guess but I'd say blood loss.”   
“From the...Eyes?” Charlie asked, indication to the eyeless sockets that the corpse possessed. Blake nods. Lawson rubbed the bridge of his nose.   
“Munro is going to have a field day.” Lawson said, with a long sigh. Blake nodded in agreement.   
“He certainly is.” 

….

“Where are you off too, Charlie?” Blake asked, as Charlie tugged his coat over his shoulders.   
“Mrs Beazley needs eggs.” He said. “So I'm going to go buy some.” Blake frowned lightly. “Why?” He asked, pausing.   
“Charlie come with me.” Blake said, before pulling him into the office. On the chalk board, he'd pinned up the photos of the four victims.   
“Yeah?” He asked. “I'm working the case Doc. I don't need a visual.” He sighed. Blake shook his head and pointed at each of the victims before back at Charlie.   
“What do you notice they all have in common?”   
“White men about thirty with dark hair?”   
“And what are you?” Blake asked, with a raised eyebrow. Charlie scoffed loudly.   
“Blake!” He complained. “All of these men are much smaller then me, and none of them are trained to arrest people three times their size.” He said, “And it's broad daylight. No one's going to attack me.” he said, rolling his eyes.   
“Call me crazy, Charlie, but I'd feel a lot better if you wore your uniform.”   
“Yeah the crazy person gouging out mens eyeballs is not gonna attack me because I wore my uniform.” He scoffed. Blake sighed at him.   
“Please?”   
“Fine.” Charlie said, shaking his head, and then going back upstairs to put his uniform on. He paused at the door before he left. “But if Munro finds out I was wearing my uniform to...Buy eggs…Then it'll be my head on a platter.” He threatened. Blake scoffed, but stopped Charlie just before he left.   
“Thank you.”   
…  
He stumbles. Having been lost in his thoughts, he'd almost lost his precarious balance on top of the wooden crate he was standing on, he thinks back to when Blake spoke to him, how he'd brushed it off and god did he feel stupid.   
That was a great deal of time ago now and Charlie wishes that he hadn't been so stupid. He really should have listened to Blake. What did he know, anyway? He shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, trying to keep himself upright. His arms had been tied above his head, in some kind of prayer position that he thought had less to do with religion and a whole lot more to do with him not being able to use his shoulders to keep the weight off his aching leg muscles. At first, he'd thought that he might be able to twist and pull his hands out of whatever was holding them there, but it must be handcuffs or something because it had only cut into his wrists. At first, he thought that the blood might make it easier because it was slippery, but it didn't take too long for it to turn into a sticky mess under his fingers. At some point, the slow crawl of blood had made its way down his arms and dried in clumps along his arms and sides. He pulled at the bonds half heartedly, before focusing on trying to not fall down.   
While he couldn't see any obvious death traps waiting for him if he lost his balance on the box, he got a feeling that it would probably rip his arms out of his sockets or something. Breathing is also getting more and more difficult as the pressure on his chest came down heavily on him like a weight. 

The door opened. 

Charlie looked up, his eyes easily finding a figure in the darkness of the room. Whoever it was moved forward so Charlie could see him and he was shocked to find that he didn't know them. “Mmmmm.” He commented, putting a hand on Charlie's perspiration stained face, dragging it down his face and then down his neck, and moving away. “You are a pretty one, Sergeant.”   
“Stop it!' Charlie said, trying to move back as far as he bound hands would allow him too.  
“why would I do that?” He asked, “ We're barely even started.” He breathed out, and then went over into a dark corner where Charlie couldn't see.   
“I've got friends you know!” Charlie called after him. “Big friends!” He said, as the man returned with a knife. “And whatever you do to me is gonna be nothing compared to what they do to you!” He said, as the man dragged the dull half of the knife along his clavicle.   
“Is that so?” he asked, turning the knife over, and dragging it slowly across Charlie's exposed chest, just enough to nick him. A few drops of blood welled up along the small cut, two made their way down his chest, The man pauses, and then drags a finger along the slightly bloody slice, and examines the redness on his fingers, before forcing them into Charlie's mouth. He was more intent on breathing then anything else. He gags around the fingers, until the man removes them. “This is a bad town for pretty boys like you.” He breathed, “ A bad town for all those pretty boys.” He said, softly. “Of course, nothing will ever match the spread of a story like this hm? Those other boys, they scared them, but taking a police man? And one who's very close to the superintendent at that. Ballarat will crumble.” He breathed.   
“Was I your ultimate target?”   
“Don't be pretentious. I have dozens of targets walking around this city. You..You just happened to be the easiest to catch.” He said, softly. He breathes out, and Charlie can smell the alcohol on his breath, and he wants to choke on it.   
“Blake will find you.” he said, in a soft voice. “And he's gonna make you suffer.” He breathed, as the man examined his knife under the light, and then smiled at Charlie, a menacing look in his eyes.   
“Not as much as you will.”   
…

How long has be been lying here? He slowly tried to roll over, but to no avail. He could barely get his arms to move in time with his mind. He felt like he was covered in a layer of grime, and looking down he noticed his once white boxers had turned a rather disgusting brown kind of a colour with dry blood and dirt. He wishes, rather desperately, that Blake had come to save him already. He didn't know how much time he had left until the man finished toying with him and decided that his time was up. 

His arms had been numb since his captor had released him from what he had come to refer to as his hanging position. He'd done that, however, by kicking the box he'd been standing on out from under him and watching him hang from his wrists for what felt like a lifetime. He'd never screamed so much in his life. 

At that moment, of course. He'd screamed a lot more since then. 

…

“And there's no trace of him at all at the station?”  
“A t all.” Munro said, for the tenth time. “If he left Ballarat, it wasn't by train or bus.” He sighed, as Blake drew a line though the white writing on the chalk board.   
“Which means that our earlier suspicion was right.” Lawson said, taking a piece of chalk and circling 'abduction' on the board.   
“Maybe he's hiding?” Munro offered feverishly.   
“He's not.” Mattie said, from the desk.  
“What makes you so sure?” Munro asked.   
“Because that's not like him.” She said, rather firmly. “There's no way he'd leave all his things here.” She said, “He told me that was the only photo of his father, there's no way he'd leave that behind.” She insisted. “If he didn't come home then it wasn't by choice. “ Blake nods.   
“I agree with Mattie, he wouldn't leave with out at least telling someone at the station to fill his place.” He nodded. Lawson nods.   
“He's loyal, if nothing else.” Lawson agreed. “Not to mention, he looks just like the other victims of our killer.” He said, indicating to the four other pictures Blake had up on his chalk board, and then he stuck Charlie's photo up next to them. A picture cut out of the paper, it was an over the shoulder shot of him arresting a faceless suspect.   
“Now we have to solve the case before Charlie is gone forever.”   
…  
It's very dark and very cold. He wonders if this is what hell is like. His mother had said that in hell everything was always on fire, but he can't think of anything that would be bad about fire at the moment. He'd love fire right now. He might even like to be on fire, if it means that this will end. The bone deep coldness would dissipate and he can't imagine anything better then that. After a moment, he's disgusted with himself. He used to dream so big, but stripped down to his very base desires, he wonders what he could ever have done to suffer such a fate. 

He's disgusted by his own dirty hair, plastered to his forehead with dried brown blood. Once neat, now a mess of tangles and dirt He supposes it hasn't grown much, so it cant have been too long, could it? Maybe it has. He would have had a sure way to measure the time if his facial hair had been allowed to grow past its initial stubble. For whatever reason, his captor took a great joy in nicking his face with the razor so he supposes that it might not even be because he wants Charlie disoriented, but maybe because he just likes humiliating him. And really that would make sense, wouldn't it? Think Charlie, he told himself, as he tried to move one arm up to move his hair back from his face, but it doesn't work. Blake will be so disappointed in you, he thinks, as he slowly moved his knees up to his chest. It hurts, sure, but being unprotected hurts a lot more. 

His stomach aches again, and his head throbs. He's past the point of being sore because of the hunger and now just feels a rather permanent feeling on neasuea. The sort that claws at your stomach walls, tossing the acid like the sea on a windy night. The sort that growls like some kind of monster and you wonder how long until you actually start to digest yourself. Even his mouth is dry now, the sort of chalky dryness that you wake up with in the morning and no amount of saliva will help him. 

Blake must be coming now. He has to be. He perks up at every loud footstep, listens for hours at a time, trying to decipher any and all sounds that he hears as them. Maybe it's not Blake. Maybe it's Lawson. Maybe it's Munro. It could be any of his friends because there's no way Blake would willingly let this go on, would he? Maybe he would, Charlie realizes. After all, Blake had told him not to go out alone and he should have listened. Maybe this is punishment. Maybe his suffering is Blake's I told you so. Maybe this is on purpose. And maybe he deserves it. And maybe, a tiny part of him says, he should just give up and give in. 

Maybe that's what Blake would want anyway.   
…

Ha hand drags him up by the hair. He chokes rather suddenly, his impossibly fragile stomach threatening him. He knows by now that there is nothing to come out except bile. And sometimes, maybe even blood. If he was really unlucky. When had fate ever been nice to him anyway? 

The captor, who he still has no name and no desire to come up with one for, seems to be pleased about something. Maybe that's lucky for him. Maybe not. He pulls him up, and deposits him on a stool. His top half just kind of slumps over, unable to find any desire to stay upright. With a sigh, the man drags him backwards so he's leaning against the wall. Whatever tasteless gruel the man had given him twice since his arrival was, it did little to give him any energy. He has a dented metal cup in one hand, and squishes his lips open with one hand, his fingers pressing his cheeks up against his teeth, his lips crinkle and he wishes he had the energy to be upset. A hot tin cup presses up against his lips, it's hot enough to burn them but he doesn't complain. Partially because he doesn't have the energy, partially because he doesn't care anymore. 

It's not until the contents of the cup hits his tongue that he actually reacts. It's salty, with a second taste that he knows. He tries to use what's left of his mind to come up with the answer.   
Chicken.   
It's soup. Or broth, probably more like, he can't feel anything that would actually require use of his jaw to eat. Just liquid. He sits up slightly, assisting his captor as much as he can because after nothing for so long, it just tastes so good that he doesn't even have the extra brain capacity to be disgusted with himself.

Then the cup moves away, and the man runs a rough hand down his cheek. “I thought you'd be thirsty.” He commented. Charlie wants to tell him to not play these games with his mind because he'd be so easy to trick right now. But he doesn't, he doesn't want to move too much and upset his stomach. “And maybe a little hungry.” He murmured, rubbing a thumb over his cheek, probably noticing that the only places on his face that even resembled clean were two lines on his face where his tears had run off his nose and down the side of his cheeks. His thumb doesn't catch on any stubble and Charlie supposes that its a good thing, he doesn't want to be shaved again tonight, its just humiliating and he could do without it. 

“Did you like that?” He asked mockingly, as Charlie's slightly hazy blue eyes followed him. He grabbed Charlie's jaw tightly in his hand, and then snapped a photo of his face. Charlie was temporarily blinded by the sudden bright light, having been kept in the dark this whole time. His stomach lurches as the man pushes him to the ground. He takes deep breath after deep breath, trying his hardest to keep his stomach calm. He couldn't afford to lose whatever sustenance the broth had contained, he might not be a doctor but he knew this level of lethargy was not normal. 

The man sat on top of Charlie's poor chest, it creaks under his weight, he smiles, and takes another photo of him while he was dazed. He can't help but wonder why all this was necessary. 

…  
Blake wants to be sick. It's been a long time since he'd felt like this. Munro had stormed out of the room shortly after they opened the yellow folder that had been delivered to Lawson's desk earlier in the day. They hadn't seen him since. All the other cases had been put on hold, everyone was hunting him down. The two photos sat on top of Lawson's desk, each one glossy and daunting. Lawson was holding one, and he had just set one down. 

The longer he looked the worse he felt. He could almost feel the misery that Charlie seemed to be extruding in the pictures, but at least he still had his eyes, Blake thinks. “Is it wrong that I wish he'd just run away?” Lawson asked, setting the photo back down on the table. Blake let out a long sigh,   
“If it is, then I'm not sure I want to be right.” He murmured.   
…  
He comes to the conclusion that Blake musn't be looking for him. It's never taken Blake more then a week to solve a case before, and it has to have been more then a week. He must still be upset that Charlie went out even though he said not to. He wonders if Mrs Beazley ever got the eggs he was sent to buy. His thoughts refuse to align themselves into a train that he can follow. 

He's laying on his back this time. A huge boot shaped bruise has formed on his stomach, blossoming in purples and brown. Thick bile and saliva stick to his chin and dribble down his neck. The longer he lies here the more likely he is to choke on it. If Blake's not coming for him, then that might be for the best anyway. 

…

His eyes follow his captor as he paces slowly back and fourth in the room. So far, he hasn't put a hand on him, and he realizes, that something must have changed. The tiny hope in his chest starts to blossom again, and he lets it. He'd rather have hope then fall into the abyss of apathy that loomed in front of him. Maybe Blake is coming for him after all? Maybe, just maybe, there is still hope for him in this world anyway? His captor turns to face him, with a grim look on his face. “I was hoping to play with you for longer.” He comments, kneeling, and running his fingers along Charlie's chin. “Seems time is not on my side however.” He sighed, softly, as if he were upset. “Oh well.” He said, leaving Charlie alone. 

…

He returns some time later, although Charlie has no idea when that would be, given his skewed sense of time. He'd propped up on the chair again, and he knows this isn't going to end well. He tries to pull himself into a tight ball to protect his face and head from incident. He'd learned early on that he would go for anything he left exposed. 

The man grabs him and forces him back up, trying his hands to the handle of the chair, so tightly that they bruise, he can feel it. Blood pounds in his ears as the man puts his fingers under his chin, and tilts his head up. He held the razor where Charlie can see it. “Be careful. It's sharp.” He breathed, before taking the brush and covering it with cream. He's always been largely indifferent to shaving cream, but on his dirty cheeks, nothing has ever felt so disgusting. 

He's never really been to a barber to shave. Never needed to. Why would he pay someone to do something he could do himself, after all? He's been even more hesitant to go to a barber for anything since Lawson sat him in the chair looking for the (as he called it) chop chop partner.   
The razor nicks his upper lip, just under his nose and a small dribble of blood escapes down his face. Thankfully, this is the only time he does that today. He wonders if he should be thankful . 

It doesn't last It never does. At least his chin is clean now, he thinks, as the man tilts his head back, and uses his fingers to peel back his eyelids. Oh God. He'd been wrong. Blake was not going to save him. He was going to die here.   
He was going to die here. 

His captor shows him a knife, and then holds the blade up to a lighter until it was red hot. He discarded the lighter, and then proceeded to drive it under his eyeball and sure he'd felt pain in the last few weeks but this was something else. He screams. He screams, and screams and screams until he throws up. Bile escapes down his chin as he tries to sit back away from the knife as the man continues to push it into his eye, the metal burns him and he screams and screams and screams until he passes out. 

…

He can't see. He's not bleeding so much but he cannot see. He can hear something, but he cannot see them. Yelling, there's yelling. Are they yelling at him? He's not sure. 

Very suddenly, there are arms around his upper body, pulling him up. “Charlie? Charlie?” That's his name. He tries to reply but it comes out as nothing more then a slurred groan. There's fingers on his face and he considered that it might be nice to have more soup. The voice doesn't register with him, there's a hand running though his dirty hair and that's new. That's different. “Stay calm for me.” He knows that voice. It's new, but old at the same time. 

“Charlie? Charlie? Charlie?” The chanting continues. His name. Why are they saying his name? Hands on his face, hands on his cheeks. It hurts. He should have known better, he thinks, as the arms wrap around him, he should have known better. He's going to die in here, eyeless and cold. Perhaps this is death? Perhaps this is the end. 

And then he feels something on his face. Cloth? Buttons? Fingers clutch him tight. Warm chest near his cold face. A beating heart and another “Charlie? Charlie?” He breathes in though his nose and he can smell the strange clinical smell of a hospital mixed with something so unique that he didn't even mind it. He's never smelt this before. But he knows it. He know it.

Suddenly he's of the ground and there is talking again. “Hold on, Charlie. We're going home.” He almost doesn't dare to think it. It seems so forbidden now to have such a hope, such a selfish hope. Was this Blake? Was he going home? He doesn't want to go home now, what life was there? No future as a police man, no future working with Blake, just an endless inky blackness. 

All he does, on the way out, is mourn that he has no eyes to cry with anymore. 

…

Charlie? Charlie?” he calls, as he crashes into the room. Munro and Lawson sprint off after their killer, leaving him here in the dark hunting after the missing sergeant. The room smelt like blood and death, as if something had rotted here, and the bones had decomposed as well. In the darkness, he watches something shift, and against his better judgment he runs to it. His feet pound the dirty floor and he slides to his knees by the very dirty form left on the ground.   
He hoists his upper body up and pushes dirty hair back from his dirty face, trying to look at him in the darkness of the room. Hesitantly, he pulls slightly on his cheek, revealing an empty eye socket. He gasps softly and pulls him close to his chest. “Oh God. Hang on.” He murmurs, getting to his feet, and taking Charlie into his arms he doesn't respond but Blake isn't sure that he needed him too. He jogs up the stairs, only pausing before he left, having realized that Charlie would be blinded if he took him out now, only to realize, standing by the door, fingers on the broken door, about to move out of the way, that Charlie was already blind. After a moment, he flings open the door, and continues out to the waiting ambulance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up is funny, because it was dark when he went to sleep, and it's dark now as well. He's not sure how long he's been asleep for but it must be a long time.

Waking up is funny, because it was dark when he went to sleep, and it's dark now as well. He's not sure how long he's been asleep for but it must be a long time.  
Far too long, even. He's warm now, however. In some other life, he might have been ashamed of how quickly he reached for the blanket, feeling it keenly with both hands. His fists tighten around it, fingers strain to hold as much of it as he can. He pulls it close and inhales a deep breath of the clinical smell that suddenly stings his nose. 

Blake smiles sadly at the display. He hadn't wanted to spook Charlie, so he hadn't made any move to alert the younger of his presence. Charlie actually seemed to be smiling at the blanket, pulling it up to his face and burying his nose in it. He hears the distinct noise of Charlie's rattled breathing as he takes in the smell and it takes him a long time to not say something, anything. 

Eventually, he does have to bring himself to Charlie's attention. “Charlie?” he asks, softly. Charlie seizes up. His grip on the blanket turns from tight to bone crushing, as he turns his head towards the source of sound in the room. He pauses, as though he's trying to identify the noise as friend or foe. Its as if a sudden realization crashes down on him, and he recalls the situation for what it is.

His thoughts are almost palpable, and Blake has no idea what to follow that with, how to let Charlie know he was safe. “Charlie.” He repeats. His head turns again. If he had eyes, Blake expects that they would be burying in his flesh, trying to understand him from the inside out. There is a long pause, and Charlie purses his lips like he may something. It comes out as a soft squeak.   
“You came.” Blake's heart actually breaks.   
“Of course I did.” He breathes. Charlie's hands move out, reaching in his general direction in a way that could only truly be described as spastically. Blake stands and moves to him, allowing Charlie's hands to grab onto his waist coat the same way he imagines a child grabs their mother after crying. 

Under Charlie's fingers he feels what is definitely a shirt or something. It's real under his finger tips. As if he were clawing his way up a mountain, fingers in search of his destination. Blake's own fingers land on top of his, warm and slightly callused. He leans down, and finally, Charlie's fingers find what they were looking for. 

Charlie's fingers land on his face, rather roughly. They dance around his cheek bones, over his nose, His thumbs press down, trying to get a feel of his skin, as if he wanted to peel it back and climb inside it. He lets out a funny little strangled sound as he pushes slightly at his cheeks. His body shuddered with a sob, and Blake leant down to pull him close. Charlie seizes up, not expecting the sudden contact, but Blake persists, and after several moments, Charlie pressed his face into Blake's chest, breathing deeply though his nose. His body shuddered with sobs, the sort that start deep in your gut and spill out of your mouth with the force of a waterfall. The type of body wreaking sobs that Blake hopes he never hears again, deep and grinding. More like shrieking then crying at times. 

His face screws up against Blakes shirt. His nose runs, his hands spasm in Blake's shirt, trying to hold him closer still. Blake's reply is to hold him as close as he could, and bury his nose in Charlie's hair, now clean, smelling like shampoo, Charlie's screams continue, but only for a short while before he seems to tire, and settle, laying still against him. 

It all feels so familiar to Bake that he wants to simply fall into some kind of abys and wonder what sort of world it is that they live in, where a young police man reminds him painfully of people he knew during war. And it makes him angry. It will do you no good here, he tells himself, as he gently lies Charlie back on the bed. Charlie's fingers cling in a somewhat pathetic way to his waistcoat, as he lowers himself down onto the bed, so Charlie's spine is no longer bent at such an angle. He puts his hand on the back of Charlie's head.   
“I can't see you.” Charlie whispered. Blake let out a soft sigh,   
“I know.” He murmured. “I'm sorry.”  
…

Charlie had come to find out that his living was not a mistake, but in fact by design. The heated knife had sealed the wounds while making them, and now he was alive but at what cost? He feels even worse when he finds out that they hadn't even caught the man and another body had turned up. (No one told him, but they didn't have too. He could hear the nurses wireless.) Why would anyone do this to him? He asks Blake. He asks Mattie. He asks Mrs Beazley. He asks Hobart. He asks Lawson. He asks Munro. He asks Ned. He asks the nurses. He asks his mother, on her single visit before she reveals that she'd married in his absence and he didn't know the man and she wasn't sure she wanted him too. He asks the radio. He asks Beatrice, when she shows up out of the blue. (Apparently she was on Parole) 

The only consistent visitor is Blake. Day in day out, Blake is in, sitting by the bed, providing him with information about what he couldn't see anymore. Feet walk past. He seizes up.   
“It's a nurse Charlie, it's alright.” He's also not a very good conversationalist, but Blake doesn't seem to mind too much. He supposes that he might be becoming dependant on him but he's also not sure he minds too much. “She's bringing in something to eat.”  
“I'm not hungry.” He murmured, as Blake pulled the table over his hips.   
“I know.” He assured Charlie, as the nurse set the tray down. “But you should try anyway.” He murmured back. Charlie sighed softly, and used his hands to sit up slightly more on the bed. “Ready?” Blake asked, taking Charlie's hand into his own. Charlie just sighed quietly. 

Blake turned Charlie's hand palm up, and helped him fit his fingers to the fork. He took his other hand, and helped him fit it around the knife. “See, not so hard.” He said, as he guided Charlie's hand to the plate, to cut into the sandwhich.   
“What am I eating?” he asked,   
“Sorry. I forgot to tell you.” Blake apologised. “It looks like a ham and salad sandwich.” He said.   
“Will I ever eat sandwhiches normally again?” He questioned, as he cut though the bread and filling until the knife clinked against the plate.  
“ Maybe, when you've adjusted...”  
“To being blind?”   
“Hm.” Charlie just sighed softly. “What?”  
“I feel okay. When you're nearby. But when you leave, I worry that you won't see the virtue in returning.”  
“Why would you think that?” Blake asked, moving the tray away. Charlie's face turns towards his hands.   
“Why would you stay?” He asked.   
“Because you're my friend.”  
“I have nothing to offer you any more.” He murmured. “No job. No police benefits. Won't be able to pay the rent or help Mrs Beazley in the kitchen. All you can see, that's all I have. I mean how useless do you have to be, when you can't even hold a fork by yourself?” he asks, tossing the metal implement away onto his legs, followed by the knife. “But when you're nearby I think that maybe it will all be okay, some how. And then you leave and I realize that it can't ever be okay.”   
“If it makes you feel better then I will move into this hospital until you're let out.” Blake said, rather ernestly.   
“You'd be bored in an hour.” Charlie told him. “Anyway. Then you'd see that there's nothing about me worth saving anyway.”   
“Don't say that.”  
“But there's not. I don't know what you used to see in me, but it's gone now. You have no reason to stay and I have no genuine reason to hold on.”  
Blake took Charlie's hand into his own, suddenly. Charlie gasps slightly in shock, but says nothing. “I used to see a young man with a lot of potential to be an excellent police man, and an excellent person.” He murmured. “You were so smart. You saw things like no one I'd ever seen and you were excellent at crosswords.” There is a pause.   
“Now I see a young man who is impossibly strong, who went though something that can only be described as torture and came out both sane and alive.” He rubs the back of Charlie's hand comfortingly. “I still see that same potential in you. You're still smart. Weren't you just yesterday telling me about how you can tell when Lawson comes into the room because of a very slight limp in his left leg from a wartime injury? Something that most people would never notice. And how you can tell when I walk in because of how light my footsteps are compared to Munro's? I'm here with you now, and I will keep being here with you until you don't need me anymore.” he said, softly. “And that might be never. I will be there. I'm not leaving you.” He promised. Charlie looked at him with an expression that he imagined would have silent tears if he still had tear ducts. Blake knew he wasn't really looking, just moving his head towards the noise, but with the bandage over his eyes, it was easy for him to pretend.   
“My own mother doesn't even want me anymore.” He said, softly. “And you really see all of that in me?” Blake nods, which he follows by standing, and pulling Charlie tightly against him. 

Even if his spine was bent at a slightly funny angle Charlie didn't care. In another life, he might have been humiliated, spilling his guts like that, but now, now he didn't even have the energy left to cry. Blake seems to sense this because it doesn't take long for Blake to slowly put him back down on the bed.   
…

It was pretty easy, once he thought about it, to figure out who was who when they walked in. Lawson had a very slight,almost unnoticeable limp in his left leg, Blake never seemed to leave, Munro had heavy footsteps, Mattie always put a lot of weight onto her left foot and he could almost feel Jean's skirt swishing. 

He'd been here for so long now he was wondering when he was ever going to leave. Blake tells him that there's flowers all over the room. Sometimes he lets him hold them, but mostly, he doesn't care too much. He always reads the cards as well, even if Charlie can't anymore. “More flowers!' Blake announced, spooking Charlie out of his thoughts with a jutter. “From Hobart again.”  
“Is there a card?”  
“No. He just gave them to Lawson to give to me to give to you.”  
“Ah.” There's a rustling on his left where Blake sets down the flowers, and a creak when he sits on the chair. “How are things at the station?”  
“They're okay. Lawson and I emptied out your desk, so you wouldn't have too.”  
“Thanks.” He said, with no real gratitude behind it. But Blake didn't seem to mind, he just carried on.   
“However I am reliably informed that you should be coming home by the end of the week.” A pause. “As long as you keep eating.” Blake said, “I'm going to take your hand now.” Blake said, as he took Charlie's hand in his own.   
“How am I going to go home if I havent been able to get out of bed yet?” he asked. “My muscles are wasting away.”  
“I was hoping that we could try walking around for a while.”  
“Hoping?”  
“If you're okay with me leading you.” Blake said, and Charlie could hear his smile.   
“I just want to move.” Charlie said, with a broad smile. Blake peels back the sheets, Charlie curls in on himself instinctively.   
“Sorry.” Blake said, as Charlie slowly uncurled himself. Charlie just grunts at first, before he seemed okay.   
“Can you warn me next time?” He asks, his hands joining together on his lap.   
“Of course.” Blake assured him, “Shall we move off the bed?” A slight pause, followed by Charlie nodding yes. 

It takes them far longer then it used to, but with some careful movements, and Blake's directions, Charlie had managed to position himself so that his legs were hanging off the edge of the bed, and his hands were on Blake's upper arms, preparing to stand. “Stop.” He breathes, “Stop, please.” So they stop. He'd not expected that. He'd begged plenty of times for his captor to stop, and he hadn't listened, he hadn't expected Blake to listen to him either, but they were stopped. His cold toes are flat against the floor, his hands griping onto Blake's arms crushingly. The Doctor, to his credit, says nothing about it.   
“What's wrong?” He asks, when Charlie doesn't elaborate.   
“I just wanted to take a breath.” He murmured. “If I fall, then you'll catch me, won't you?” he asked, Blake nods, before realizing that Charlie can't hear a nod.   
“Of course.”  
“Thank you.” He breathed. “Shall we stand?” he asked, tensing and then untensing his arms. Blake smiles.   
“Of course. I'm ready when you are.” he promised. Charlie nods, and using Blake to steady himself, he slowly, painfully slowly, managed to lever himself up into a standing position.   
“I'm up.” he breathed, clearly unaware of how close he actually was to Blake, because he jumped when Blake replied with   
“Yes you are.”   
“How should I walk?”He asked quietly.   
“The same way you always have. One foot in front of the other. I'll be here with you, I'll make sure you don't fall.” he promised, as Charlie leaned his weight on the Doctor.   
One foot forward. And then the other. It's slow going, painfully slow, almost like learning to walk all over again, but he got there in the end. He couldn't walk fast or very well, but they made it to the end of the room, went though the arduous task of turning, and then walked back. 

Blake sets him back on the bed, and smiles slightly at him. “Well done.” He said, “I'm going to put the blankets back over you now.” He tells Charlie, before tucking the blankets over his lower half.  
“Thank you.” He said. “You didn't have to do all of this for me.”  
“I know.” Blake smiled. “But I want to. I brought you this.” He said, setting a piece of board on Charlie's lap.   
“What's this?” He asks.   
“It's Braille.” Blake explained. “I thought you might like to have a look at it.”  
“Blind people writing?”  
“Hm.” Blake agreed. “Here.” He said, taking Charlie's unresisting wrist in his own, and curling his fingers under his hand so only one finger was pointing out. “It's arranged in a set of six dots, like this.” He said, moving Charlie's hand to a set of six dots at the top of the page. “And then the location of the dots in the six makes up the letter.” He explained. “Here's A.” He said, moving Charlie's hand down the page to the letter A. “Do you feel that?” Charlie nodded.   
“I do.” He smiled. “Are the letters in order.”  
“They are, yes.” Blake said. “Move your arm left.” Charlie does so, his fingers catching slightly on each dot. Blake dictated what letter he was on as his finger passed it.   
“You think I can learn to read this?” He asks. Blake smiles.   
“I do.” Charlie tucked his finger into a lose fist and then gave Blake a small smile.   
“I can try.”

…

When he wakes up, Blake is not there so he goes back to sleep.   
When he wakes up, Blake is still not there, so he goes back to sleep.   
On the third time, there is someone there, but it's not Blake. They don't notice his being awake, so he does nothing to give away that he is. He doesn't shift his breathing or change his physicality. Just listen, listen, listen. It's hard, there's a very faint buzzing in his ears that Blake says will heal with time, but he tries to keep listening. Soft breathing, they're comfortable around him. He can't smell them, but he can hear their shifting. A hand is suddenly on his face, and he has to put a lot of effort into not screwing his face up in shock, just breathe, he tells himself, as the hand smooths a curl back off his forehead, only for it to fall back into place. The hand moves away, it must be Mattie, then. Gentle fingers, Mrs Beasly would never touch his face like that, Blake would know better, Lawson as a general rule didn't do touching, and everyone would be at work anyway. 

“Why are you here?” he asks, as Mattie gasps in shock. It's good to be the one causing shocks instead of the other way around.   
“Blake's got a cold.” Mattie informed him. “He thinks you're too weak to be around him, so you'll have to stay here for another couple of days.” She said. “And I'm here to sit with you.”   
“Don't you have to work?”   
“I'll live.” Charlie scoffed lightly.   
“Will you pass me the board near your left arm?” Mattie sets the Braille board on his lap. “Thank you.” He said.   
“How did you know where my arm was?” She asked, softly.   
“Educated guess.” He shrugged.   
“Are you learning Braille?”   
“Apparently.”   
“Is it hard?”   
“Yes.”   
“I thought you had an eidetic memory?”   
“I do. But it only works if I see what I'm remembering.” He said, “Now I can't see, I can't use it. It's a waste, really.”   
“Oh.” She said. “That's awful.”   
“Yeah well. “ He replied, pausing his fingers. “Remind me. Do you have blue or green eyes?”   
“You can't remember, Mr Eidetic memory?”   
“No.”   
“They're sort of….Both.” She said, after a moment.   
“That's right.” he said, “I remember.” He smiled.   
“Why are you asking about my eye colour?”   
“Just trying to build a mental picture of you, that's all.”   
“Oh?”   
“I'm very bored.” He replied.   
“What do I look like, then, in your mind?”   
“Rather how you look outside my mind, I think.”   
“You think?” She asked, resting her head on her fist.   
“Small mouth, medium lips, heart shaped face, red-ish hair.” He listed, fingers still on the board.   
“Alright, that's pretty good.” She said, “Blake said you were walking on Monday.” She said, shifting the conversation back onto Charlie.  
“Yeah. All the way across the room.” He scoffed. “Why?”   
“Do you want to do it again?” Charlie's hidden eyebrow (or what was left of it) quirks under the bandage.   
“You think you're strong enough to hold me up?” He questioned.   
“I am a nurse.” Mattie counted. “I do things like this for a living.” Seeming to accept defeat, Charlie passes the board back in her general direction, and then tugs the blanket back to expose both of his legs. Mattie smiled excitedly, and moved to stand. “How does this work?”   
“You help me sit so my legs are off the bed, then I'll use you to stand and you hold me up while we walk.” He said.   
“Okay.” She smiled, helping him into a similar position to how he'd been standing with Blake. Once his feet were on the floor, he managed to put his hands on her shoulders. “Alright, are you ready?” She asked.   
“No, but that's not really the point.” He sighed, his fingers holding her shoulders with a strength he's not sure he still possessed.  
“We can wait until you are.” She promised. “I'm not going anywhere.”   
“It's not your going anywhere that worries me.” He replied,   
“What is it?” She asked, staying still.   
“I don't want to knock you down.” He sighed.   
“You won't.” She promised. “Are you ready?” Charlie sighed, but nods. “Go.” She smiled, as Charlie kept his grip strong on arms as he slowly levered himself to stand. “Well done.” She smiled, as they slowly started to walk towards the edge of the room. It was much eaiser the second time, but not as easy as it used to be, not to mention that he was still putting quite a lot of his weight on Mattie. (Admittedly, it wasn't as much as it used to be, given that he'd quite gone off food in general, and was slowly losing weight, he was sure Blake had a plan for that.) It was slow, and he stumbles twice, but they make it to the end of the room, turn, and start the walk back to the bed. 

She helps him sit back on the bed, and gave him a little smile. “How was that?”   
“Tiring.” He sighed, in reply, before swinging his legs slowly back up onto he bed. “But thank you.” He said, finally. Mattie nodded, and helped him back under the sheets.   
“You're welcome.” She told him, rubbing one of the shoulders that he'd been gripping lightly, and then after a moment, setting the board down on his lap. “How is the study coming?”   
“It's fine” He said, after a moment. “I've almost got the alphabet down, but it's a lot of work.” He sighed.   
“You'll get used to it.” Mattie said, after a moment.   
“I hope so.” Charlie murmured, with a long sigh.   
…

It takes a further three weeks for Charlie to go home. Several setbacks, including another body turning up, and the fact that he's still struggling to walk convince Blake to keep in hospital for a little longer. He was unware that 'a little longer' meant almost a month but there you go. He learns several things, over those three weeks.  
One, Lawson was not going to tell him what happened to his leg.

Two, Mrs Beazly's sandwhiches are far better then the ones at the hospital. 

Three, Munro might have been in love with his father, which he finds concerning. 

Four, his mother wasn't answering any of the calls he made to her.

It's a pretty miserable time to be Charlie Davis, he thinks.

…  
“You remember the steps?” Blake said, taking Charlie's hand into his, careful not to react when Charlie clings onto it with a borderline painful grip.   
“Yes, I remember the steps.” He murmured, carefully finding his footing on the steps, and then up again. Blake had offered to carry him, but he'd said not to be stupid, he was blind, not crippled. He was going to walk inside if it took him all week. (It did not need to be mentioned that it may in fact take him all month at this rate.) He stumbles slightly but Blake makes sure he doesn't fall. 

He allowed Blake to guide him inside, and then into the hall. “Just watch the table there.” Blake said, making sure that Charlie didn't trip over the table. It's slow going to get to the living room, but when he enters, he gets the sense that there's more then just the two of them in there. 

“Welcome home.” Lawson says, from somewhere. He turns his head sharply, before Blake insists that he should sit in the chair.   
“Matthew, Mattie, Jean and I are all in the room.” Blake said, taking a seat next to him. “Welcome home.” He smiled, and Charlie nods, but his heart isn't in it. 

No one seems to really notice.

…

Things are different.   
His clothes are put away for him, in colour coordinated piles, so he doesn't look like a fool when he gets dressed in the mornings. 

Mattie never complains about him using all the hot water anymore, even when he does it on purpose to get a rise out of her. 

He's not allowed anywhere that he could trip and hurt himself. Which is mostly the whole house, if he's honest. 

He used to have a confident walk, long steps and a steady pace, but it's become inconsistent and hesitant when he walks now. Some of it can be blamed on his still sore ankle but he's sure it's mostly his fear of knocking things down. 

He doesn't have to wear a bandage over the top half of his face anymore, it's healed enough that he won't die from infection. (Blake said, however, if he were going to die he would be dead by now) but he can feel how uncomfortable it makes people when he does so he keeps it on.

He can't shave by himself, that was a given, Blake is kind enough to do it for him, but no matter how clinical the doctor keeps his touches it always gives him a feeling of self loathing in his stomach that makes it turn on itself all over again. 

Eating is a pain, nothing about food excites him anymore. He only eats if Blake stands over him, but Blake only makes him eat twice a day, which could mean he understands, but Charlie doesn't know. It's also humiliating, because it's just eating, he's done it his whole life but suddenly, he can't even direct a fork to his mouth. Blake seemed to pick up on that as well because when he does make Charlie eat, it's never in front of Mattie or Mrs Beazley and for that, he is grateful. 

The only thing it feels like he does independently of Blake's ever watchful eye is use the toilet, he swore in the hospital that no one was ever going to have to help him with such a basic bodily function again, it was utterly humiliating, the sort of red faced and heart pumping so fast that you can't even breathe humiliation. 

He used to be so independent, but now he can't even do up is buttons by himself, let alone everything else. For whatever it's worth, Blake never complains, and Charlie never gets the vibe that he'd rather be somewhere else but it doesn't make him feel any better about it. 

His mother still won't talk with him. When she does, she always says the same thing. Things are good. Your brothers are good. He treats me well. I hope you are feeling better.” It's also the same chest heaving sobs into Bake's waist coat but no one ever mentions them. 

The one thing that remains a constant is Blake. For whatever reason, Blake assumed the role of caregiver and he has no idea why but he's glad he has. Not much about the way Blake treats him has changed, either. He still says Charlie enough times in a day that he worries it might lose it's meaning. Still chides him and jokes with him. It's nice, he thinks. 

…

Moving around is still difficult. But it's getting better. Slowly walking into the kitchen, he makes his way to sit at the table. “Charlie.” Mrs Beazley greets, and he can hear the sounds of the metal mixer running against the bowl.   
“Mrs Beazley.” He replied, with a little smile. Sometimes, he get likes to sit in the kitchen and listen. Blake explained to him that his other senses would try and compensate for his lack of vision, and he found the Doctor to be correct. (Although, that being said, he also can't remember a time where Blake was wrong.) “What are you making?” He asked, politely.  
“Biscuits.” She replied. “With chocolate chips.” He smiles slightly.   
“Wonderful.” He said, “You don't mind if I sit, do you?”   
“No, of course not.” She replied. 

They sit in comfortable silence for some time Charlie likes the sounds of the kitchen, even if he's not really interested in eating anything cooked in here. After some times, Mrs Beazley says “Would you like to help me put them on the tray?”   
“How?”  
“I'll show you. She said, smile evident in her voice. Charlie stands, pushes his chair in, and steps over to her, careful not to put his fingers onto the stove. She positioned him in front of the table, and then stood behind him. He was a lot taller then her, but she looked around him, taking his passive wrists into her own, She turned his palm up, and put a small-ish blob of dough onto his palm. “You got it?”   
“Yeah.” He replied,  
“Like this.” She said, demonstrating with his hand how to put it down on the baking paper, and then how to press it with a fork to give it the pattern on the top. He's mostly quiet, only changing his breathing slightly when she touched him without warning but otherwise it was fairly peaceful. 

And eventually, he gets the hang of it. 

He smiles rather proudly, when later, Jean tells Blake that 'Charlie and I made them.” and Blake's smile is big enough that he doesn't even need to be able to see to know it's there. 

…

Another body turns up. Charlie stands behind the door, listening to Blake talk about it with Mrs Beazley, listening in. 

“It's awful, Jean, just awful.” He sighed, “ Thrown away, like garbage.” He laments.   
“It certainly is.” She agreed. 

That could have been him. 

…  
“Mattie, will you help me with something?” He asked, softly.   
“Sure Charlie.” She replied, turning around to face him. “What can I do for you?”   
“I need you to help me fill out some forms.” He said softly. She nods, and he passes them to her.   
“What are they for?” She asked, not sure why Charlie would be needing forms   
“Fake eyes.”   
“Oh?”   
“I want it to be a surprise, for the Doctor.” He said, after a moment. “On his birthday.”   
“That's very sweet.” She said, after a moment. “Alright. Let's do it.” 

…

It's the middle of the night, not that he knows, of course. He's groggy and hardly functioning. He' always like this when he wakes up. He's been manhandled and he has no idea where too. “Wha?” He asks, sleepily.  
“Charlie, listen to me.” Says the doctor's deep voice. “Stay here, whatever you hear, whatever happens, you stay here.”   
“Where...”   
“The wardrob-” He said, before cutting himself off, closing the door and moving away. 

Downstairs below his feet he hears a crash and a yell. Something was happening. He hears yelling but he can't quite make out any of the words being shouted in the room. He buries himself amongst the unworn coats and clothes in the wardrobe, closing his eyes tightly when he hears Mattie yelling for help. He doesn't know what's going on, not at first. Until he hears it.   
“Where is he?!” He knows that voice. He knows it like he knows his own and then there's a hand on his chin and one on his head, gripping him by the hair, holding him down in the silence of the closet He tries to get air into his lungs, but it's a struggle. Blake taught him some kind of breathing thing a few weeks ago, somehow he manages to call it up. Deep breath in, hold it, out. Deep breath in, hold it, out. Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

Repeat until the air coming in is actually air, and your throat's not closing and you're not thinking about what happened to Blake in the war, you're calm. And for the first time since this whole thing started, Charlie disobeys Blake's command. He opens the wardrobe, and slowly makes his way down the stairs. 

The safest way, he found, to get down the stairs, was to sit, and then scoot down on his behind until he could find the hard ground under his feet and he was sitting on the floor. Sure, he looked like a fool, but he wasn't face first in the carpet. He slowly stands, and it glad for his socks masking the sound of his bare feet on the floor. Lifting each foot up and setting it back down slowly, he takes the time to listen to the man's raving. 

Mattie is crying, Blake is breathing heavily. He can't hear Jean at all. 

The nearest phone is in the kitchen. 

Blake really must have some kind of sixth sense because each time Charlie pulls on the number on the phone (after finding it, of course. He struggled to actually find it on the table and almost knocked it down before he was able to get at the ringer) He rings Lawson, and then leaves the phone off the hook, did Lawson pick it up or not he wasn't sure. But it also doesn't matter. He has another plan. 

He slowly makes his way down the hall, fingers grazing the wall as he walked, until he located Jean's room. Blake's room was much closer to the front of the house, and the others were in the study so this has to be Jean's room. His fingers dance over the walls until he kicks the seat of her dresser. Hissing softly, and praying he hadn't been found out, he slowly opened her drawer of delicites. It feels so wrong, to be in her underwear draw, but he's sure that she'd understand. His fingers brush the cold metal at the back, before he pulled it out and felt it carefully. 

The gun. He's aware that a blind man should never ever be given a gun but again, he's sure they will understand. He carefully counts the bullets in the chamber, five. Then he secures his bandage tightly around his head, before making his way down the hall again, heart in his mouth, and fingers holding the weapon so tightly that they may break just from his own nerves. 

“Its over.” He said, aiming the gun at the man, or at least, where he guesses the man to be. Blake gasps. Mattie gasps.   
“Charlie!” Jean said.   
“On the ground. Hands behind your head.” He shouts. “I've called the police. It's over.”   
“For you, maybe.” The man shouts, “You're blind, there's no way you can hit me with that.” He spits, but one of Charlie's hands reach behind his head, unwrapping the bandage so it falls to his neck.   
“Am I?” He asks, as for the first time, he reveals his shiny pair of new eyes. 

Blake gasps as well, but softly. Charlie was probably the only one who heard it. The eyes were, even though he didn't know it, the same sort of blue they used to be, mixed tightly with grey, giving him the sort of appearance that he'd always had, even with the scars on both sides of his eyes and over the bridge of his nose. The blue eyes that used to reveal more about him then words ever could, the same blue as a faded police man's shirt that hung in his mother's room, belonging to his father. 

The blue that had cemented his place in the world as a police man. The ones that sometimes seemed to belong to a doll more then to a man. They had been his. 

“No.” The man said, “No.” He repeats, before laughing, “No! No! I took them out of your head, I saw them, I saw them.” Charlie keeps his grip firm, following the noise as it moves. The man is yelling now, and Charlie moves his fingers to the trigger, ready to shoot. 

Suddenly a bullet shoots past his head, grazing his cheek, a second grazes his ear. 

He squeezes the trigger five times, praying that one of them had hit the target. The pained scream tells him that he had indeed hit his target. A sob builds in his throat. Before he can react, or change anything, or even breathe, a strong pair of arms grab him from behind. 

“Give me the gun, Charlie.” It's soft, but he knows it right away. Lawson. He relinquishes his tight hold on the gun, and Lawson tosses it away, keeping his grip on Charlie tight as the desire to scream builds within him. His knees crumple, and Lawson sinks to the ground with him, his only movement is one hand moving to behind Charlie's head as he screams for all he's worth into Lawson's jumper. 

Blake gets his hands free from where he'd been tied up, and then went to Mattie and Jean to release them. Lawson looks at him over the top of Charlie's head, and then looks to their perp. 

He knelt by the man, out of Charlie's five shots, three had hit him. “You're going to dying.” Blake observes.   
“You're a doctor.” He rasps. “You have to save me.” Blake looks over at Charlie, and then looks back at him.  
“I think that I'm off duty.” He murmurs, letting him bleed out onto the rug in his office. 

Charlie never finds out what really happens. Blake tells him that he died on the second shot, he'd shot him in the neck. Mattie, Jean and Lawson all promise to never tell him the truth. 

It's what's best for him. 

…

“Happy birthday!” Charlie said, presenting him with a poorly wrapped gift. Blake accepts it, and smiles at him.   
“You didn't have to get me anything.” He smiles.   
“You won't take my damn rent money, I'd feel bad if I didn't give you something.” Charlie laughs, softly, it's not much, but it's the first real laugh he's had since he got out of hospital. 

Blake carefully unwraps the gift, and then looks up. “Oh, Charlie.” He said, softly.   
“So it looks alright?” He asks, softly.   
“It looks wonderful.” Blake promises. “Thank you.”   
He passes it to Jean who puts it up on the mantle. The framed picture of the two of them sits between to knick nacks on the mantle. 

“How did you know who it was?” Blakes asks, softly. After all the cake was eaten, and Charlie was content to sit with the firelight on his face, resting his cheek on Blake's shoulder.   
“Lucky guess.” He murmurs. Blake scoffs, and then puts his cheek atop Charlie's head.   
“Your eyes are very nice, by the way.” He said.   
“Thank you.” Charlie replies, softly. “They're made from the same things that toilets are made from.” Blake laughs, and it sounds the way it always has. Charlie smiles to himself, glad that somethings will never change.


End file.
